


Fair Cruelty

by Roehrborn



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Angst, D/s themes, Denial, Dom!Wald, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time Bottoming, Future Fic, Love, M/M, Mild Humiliation, POV Edward Nygma, Panic Attack, Post-Canon, Reconciliation, Regret, Romance, Semi-Public Sex, mild exhibitionism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2017-11-04
Packaged: 2019-01-29 05:20:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12624135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roehrborn/pseuds/Roehrborn
Summary: “You’re in denial, Ed.”“Denial ofwhat?”Oswald smiles callously. He brings his hand up to Edward’s cheek, stroking his skin softly, intimately. “You know.”~Nothing like being trapped in an Arkham cell with your old best friend to make you talk over your regrets.





	Fair Cruelty

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to Flux and Sharvie for beta work on this one!! :D
> 
> Yet another future fix-it!! I just can’t stop writing the damn things!! Hope you enjoy!  
> Prompt: "Nostalgia looks good on you."  
> ~R

“Well lucky you, looks like we’re full up.”

The guard shakes the Riddler by the shoulder and he scowls automatically before forcing a grin back onto his face. “Looks like you’ll just have to let me go, Officer Sanchez,” he says coquettishly.

The guard rolls her eyes. “Yeah, we’re out of cushy private rooms, so I guess we’ll just have to let the crazed murderer go,” she says sarcastically. “No. Orders from on high have you sharing a room, buddy.”

“Lucky me indeed,” Riddler says with a sharp grin.

“Oh, no,” Sanchez laughs, “you’re not getting off easy. They’re putting you with our worst patient.”

“Is that right?” Riddler inquires.

“Wait and see for yourself,” she suggests.

“I suppose I will. Any tips?”

“Yeah.” She gives him a condescending, sideways glance. “Keep your damn mouth shut.”

Riddler purses his lips. “Any _other_ tips?”

~

The Riddler is thrown into the cell without aplomb, and he brushes himself down fastidiously while staring out the barred slit in the door. A little _respect_ wouldn’t go awry…

“Edward Nygma.”

A cold chill passes through him.

He recognizes that voice. He recognizes it better than his own. 

“Oswald,” Edward says, turning to face the man.

_There he is._

He’s struck by how disheveled Oswald appears; they’ve only seen each other at a distance in recent years, and Oswald has always been draped in fine clothes and surrounded by luxury. Here at Arkham, he has no such masks. His eyes are deep and the skin around them looks almost bruised, his face lined with exhaustion. Edward is sure he doesn’t look much better: he’s running on very little sleep, and the Batman ran him through the wringer before dragging him here.

For the first time in years, the layers of artifice have been worn away: nothing is between them except for their thin Arkham uniforms. No politics, no plots, no posturing.

Oswald is leaning back, practically _lounging_ on the leftmost bunk, eyes narrowed and lips downturned. His head is propped up on his fist, deliberately nonchalant, but his eyes are harsh and cold. 

“So _you’re_ my new roommate?” Oswald says. “Who have I angered _this_ time?”

Edward takes a step toward the rightmost bunk, at an angle to Oswald. The other man’s pale eyes track him closely as he moves, but his head remains totally still. It’s an unnerving sight. 

“I imagine they rather hope we’ll keep each other occupied,” Edward replies, pleased that his voice comes out perfectly calm. “Too occupied to attempt escape.”

“‘Occupied’?” Oswald parrots, a condescending twist to his lip. “ _Really_ , Ed?”

An embarrassed flare burns in his chest. Edward scowls. “You _know what I mean_.”

“Do I?” Oswald asks with a smirk. “Have you ever heard of a Freudian Slip, Ed?”

“Hilarious,” Edward snaps, deadpan. He leans back against the rightmost bunk, feeling the metal edge of the bedframe dig into his calves. “Maybe you should watch what you _say_ , with no hired arms to throw themselves upon the knife for you.”

“Unarmed, Ed, I’d trounce you,” Oswald informs him flatly. Edward eyes him, calculatingly. “If you want to test that, feel free to,” Oswald offers, spreading his arms wide as if in invitation. “I’m bored out of my mind. A little _tussle_ might do me good.”

Swallowing against Oswald’s discomfiting word choice, Edward looks Oswald over; notes the weariness in the slump of his shoulders, the way he has, seemingly instinctively, angled himself to protect his weak leg, the wariness and hint of uncertainty in his eyes. Oswald _would_ fight him, Edward is sure; Edward knows how viscerally Oswald hates Arkham, how tense he must feel.

But there’s something sad and bitter in Edward’s chest, buried just below his breastbone, and he’s not sure what it is or what it wants.

He steps away from his bunk, taking a few pacing steps toward the middle of the room, chewing on his lower lip as he mulls over the implications of Oswald’s statement. “You don’t get free time?” he asks, eyes tracing Oswald’s form scrutinously.

Oswald sighs, tilting his head and giving Edward a look that feels too…playful, though his eyes are still pale and observant and empty of emotion. “What do you think? Gotham’s most well-connected villain, interacting with the other inmates? Not likely.”

“Hmm,” Edward agrees. His roundabout pacing brings him still closer to Oswald, whose eyes track him inerrantly. “They don’t like to let me out, either,” he says. “I wonder whose decision it was to put us in here together.”

“Well, it’s not as if we’re about to help each _other_ escape.” The edges of Oswald’s lips curl up, but his eyes don’t carry the emotion he’s feigning.

Edward is making his way still closer to Oswald, although he’s not sure what he’s going to do when he reaches the other man. Oswald has yet to call him on it, though he’s sure the other man has picked up on the pattern of his winding steps. “We have in the past.”

Oswald shuts his eyes, his mouth flattening out into a line. “It’s been a while since we’ve talked about _that_ ,” he says.

“It’s been a while since we’ve talked about _anything_ ,” Edward points out, reasonably; but Oswald only opens his eyes and stares at him.

“Are you saying you’d prefer it any different, _Riddler_?”

“We _are_ trapped in here together.” 

Oswald narrows his eyes, finally dropping his hand down to the mattress beside him. He scoots forward until his legs dangle off the edge of the bed, staring at Edward with those icy eyes. “You could just _go to bed_ ,” he says, slowly, “and we wouldn’t have to endure each other’s company any longer.”

“Not much chance of _that_ ,” Edward tells him, honestly. “Not while you’re sitting there, awake.”

Finally, an honest expression: Oswald grimaces, irritation and near-anger lending a little fire to his gaze. “I wouldn’t be _watching_ you, Ed.”

“Well then why won’t _you_ go to sleep? Or are you afraid of what I might do?” Edward says. He bites his tongue immediately afterward—he’s not sure he wanted to say that. He wants to see Oswald _react_ , but Oswald’s feelings have long since dulled: he no longer seems upset by statements like this.

As predicted, Oswald looks at him with cold, unmoved eyes; even the little grimace is gone. “If you think you can intimidate me, _Eddie_ , you’re mistaken.”

“I—” Edward begins harshly, teeth bared. The undefined emotion burns hot next to his heart. “I really _hate_ you sometimes,” he finds himself saying. He feels himself being drawn toward Oswald, as if by magnetic force.

“Only sometimes?” Oswald asks, with an odd inflection.

“Only sometimes,” Edward says. His eyes trace over Oswald’s face; older, now, than it was when he’d known it. Still, though…still. Oswald is close, now; closer than he’s been in _years_ , and Edward feels an overwhelming kind of feeling, a sinking kind of feeling, a drowning kind of feeling. “Other times...I miss you.” It strikes true: his chest _burns_ and his throat feels tight.

In a movement that rocks Edward, Oswald rears back from him suddenly; his eyes widen, and they’re so close that Edward can see his own face reflected in them. For a few uncertain heartbeats, Oswald’s eyes dart back and forth across Edward’s face, brow furrowed, expression scrutinizing. “What are you doing?” Oswald demands.

Edward blinks, unsure how to respond, and eventually, Oswald shuts his eyes as if pained.

Oswald’s upper lip curls, hinting at a feral grimace; there are crow’s feet around his eyes, and stress lines on his forehead. His freckles, dashed across his face like so many snowflakes, are faded, and his skin is pale and subtly tinged with blue-green. “You are such a bastard, Ed.”

“It’s true, though,” Edward says, lowering his voice to a murmur on instinct. Oswald feels colder than he should—how long has he been here? Are they even _feeding_ him? His cheekbones stand out stark and cruel. “You were in my life for such a short time, but those months we spent together sometimes seem to eclipse the whole of my past.”

He feels the impact before he sees the movement: Oswald’s hand is gripping his throat, harsh but not painful. Oswald’s palm feels ice cold against the heat of his neck.

Oswald is looking at him penetratingly, eyes like ice and pupils tiny pinpricks. He’s not wearing eyeliner, _that’s_ why his eyes are so cold. His lashes are still dark and thick, though, framing his eyes even without mascara. Edward wants to _touch_ them, brush his thumb over them as they flutter—but Oswald is holding him firm and when he speaks, his voice is shaking with long-buried rage. 

“You were like a curse for years,” Oswald says. “Karmic retribution for my past mistakes. A specter haunting me. I really learned to hate the sight of you.” Oswald’s breath brushes Edward’s chin, and he has to suppress a shudder at the sensation.

“And yet,” Edward says, “for so long, _something_ stopped you. When I killed you—”

“— _shot_ me,” Oswald corrects.

“—when I shot you,” Edward resumes, “you would have forgiven me.”

Oswald’s fingers flex on his neck. Edward swallows against them, and the strain _hurts_. Oswald watches him impassively. His lips are dry, almost cracked, but Edward hasn’t seen him lick them. Oswald blinks, his splayed lashes stark against the skin of his cheekbones.

“Right?” Edward asks.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Oswald says, a familiar dark humor edging into his tone. “Did you ask a _question_? Because all I’m hearing are _assumptions_.” Oswald’s hand shifts on his neck, his thumb brushing Edward’s jaw. The movement feels almost tender, almost loving, and in his eyes, beneath the layers of amusement and bitter anger and regret, Edward still sees that strangely familiar warmth. The look that he’d seen so many years ago, yet never understood until _after_ everything had fallen apart.

Edward shuts his eyes. To his mind’s eye, he recalls with perfect clarity: Oswald in tears, washed into a contrast of black and white in the cold of the evening, hands fastened together before him. Alternately loving and hating. The vile truths he spit at Edward, truths Edward _still_ isn’t fully at peace with, the ones that haunt his dreams even to this day.

 _You_ need _me, Edward Nygma._

And when he’d watched Oswald sink into the water, the blood from the gunshot blooming like a macabre rose, hand still reaching, eyes still—still _loving_ …

He’d known, only then, the severity of the choice he’d made.

Oswald’s grip on his neck is oddly grounding, oddly reassuring. It holds him in place so he doesn’t have to make the decision to move closer or farther away, and with his eyes shut, he doesn’t need to see the judgment in Oswald’s gaze. “I missed you, when you were gone,” he says, and it’s _freeing_.

He remembers the hallucination that had appeared afterward, who had, even after everything, tried to guide him on his path. That fact—the existence of the strangely captivating hallucination—remains, to this day, Edward’s most closely kept secret. He swallows again, and leans forward into Oswald’s grip. “I didn’t know how to move forward without you,” he confesses. “I _couldn’t_.”

Oswald’s hand flexes on Edward’s neck. “Didn’t seem to stop you when I returned.” His voice is curiously flat, and it sticks Edward like a dagger.

“It had to end,” Edward says dully. “We couldn’t— _I_ couldn’t _continue_ like that—”

“We _did_ ,” Oswald interjects. Edward can feel Oswald’s breath on his face, and he squeezes his eyes shut tighter, afraid of what awaits him. The harsh truth in Oswald’s eyes. “We _did_ continue on like that. We _are_.”

Edward shudders in Oswald’s grip. “I know.”

Oswald doesn’t say anything. Edward waits, but Oswald doesn’t move; his breath is quiet and warm against Edward’s face, his grip not shifting. Finally he blinks his eyes open, just as Oswald pulls his head back, locking their gaze.

Oswald’s eyes are a black hole, drawing him in, and in, and _in_. Edward’s heart is in his throat and he opens his mouth, uncertain of what he’s going to say.

“Do you remember when you picked me up from Arkham?” Edward asks. Oswald blinks; Edward has managed to take him off-guard. His cold eyes travel over Edward’s face, no doubt trying to ascertain the motivation behind the question.

If Oswald discovers it, Edward hopes he’ll share. Edward himself isn’t sure.

“Of course,” Oswald says. “How could I forget?” Oswald’s memories are reflected in his eyes, the tender affection of that time buried beneath the years that have passed. Oswald still has feelings for him. They’re _there_ , beneath the hate.

But Edward knows better than to think it’s the same as it once was.

Edward might have hoped that Oswald would never again feel love after him. Oswald had said as much: that he would never again let his love become a weakness. But instead of never loving again, he loves _often_ , and flippantly: the parade of suitors on the Penguin’s arm are all interchangeable and expendable. Edward still doesn’t know if Oswald’s enemies kill them, or if Oswald has them killed _himself_. But Oswald never mourns.

That is Edward’s legacy: Oswald is no less ruthless now in love than in hate.

“I was surprised,” Edward tells him finally.

“Because you had left me to my own devices post-Arkham?” Oswald asks. “I might have learned to resent you were it not for my father.”

“It was poor timing,” Edward says, apologetically. “I was getting close to my goal.”

Oswald’s expression transforms, bizarrely, lighting up like the sunrise. “Oh, no, Ed,” he says, a smile hidden in the shape of his lips, “I wouldn’t change that for the world. Things would have turned out very differently, and I _like_ myself the way I am.”

Oswald _would_. Edward always feels ill-fitting in his skin, like he’s donned some sort of costume. He’s never been able to be so satisfied with himself as Oswald is; he still finds himself questioning his own identity, trying to understand what he wants to _be_. He’s _envious_ of Oswald’s security, wants to leech it from him.

“After all, how many people have I lost? My enemies know that there’s no leverage to hold against me.”

Edward shuts his eyes and takes in a breath.

“Nostalgia looks good on you,” Oswald continues softly. Oswald’s hand on his throat loosens finally, palm resting against Ed’s skin rather than gripping. Edward opens his eyes to see Oswald’s flat expression, all traces of levity gone. “Almost makes me imagine you have feelings.”

Edward furrows his brow, unsure. “You’re accusing me of being emotionless?”

“No…” Oswald says, voice distant and thoughtful. “Of only giving in to them when they fit your expected worldview, and ignoring them otherwise.” His eyes land on Edward’s chin, a bitter and amused smile curling the edges of his lips. “Of being buried so deep in denial that you no longer see the path _in_ , let alone the path _out_.”

“Denial of _what_?” Edward asks. “What do you think I’m denying?”

Oswald smiles callously. His eyes rise to meet Edward’s gaze, and in them Edward sees smug certainty. He brings his hand up to Edward’s cheek, stroking his skin softly, intimately. “You know, Ed.”

Edward grits his teeth in response, tension quivering through his frame. “I can’t tell if that’s your narcissism speaking, or—” Oswald’s smile grows, teeth sharp, and Edward breaks off.

“Eddie,” Oswald says, and a shudder passes down Edward’s back. “If you haven’t noticed where you _are_ right now, I don’t know how to help you.”

“Arkham?” Edward says stupidly, but then he looks down.

He’s sitting in Oswald’s lap, his thighs straddling Oswald’s, their chests inches apart. Edward blinks, his hand tightening on Oswald’s shoulder. He feels a nervous flush to his cheeks and his mouth is gaping open, terror and confusion swirling within him. When did he— _why_ did he—why didn’t Oswald say anything?

He lifts his head to stare dumbly at Oswald’s collarbone, where the edge of it peeks over the collar of his Arkham uniform. It’s only a few inches away from his hand on Oswald’s shoulder. Oswald is cold underneath him, but warming, warming from Edward’s touch. His mind is awhirl and his heart is stopped in his chest, stunned stupid.

Oswald’s hand pats his cheek. “I’d feel sorry for you if I wasn’t still so _angry_ , Ed.”

“I don’t—” Edward says haltingly.

“I’ve got a riddle for you, Ed,” Oswald interrupts. “I’m simple for a few, but hard to hear. I live inside of secrets; I bring people’s worst fears. What am I?”

“The truth,” Edward says automatically. “You mean—you’re _implying_ —” He can feel Oswald’s leg shift under him and it sets him on _fire_ , confusion and useless _energy_ licking through him.

“Hard to hear, isn’t it?” Best to ignore it, honestly,” he says flippantly. Oswald is _amused_ and it stings worse than a slap to the face.

“I don’t _love_ you, Oswald,” Edward says. His throat is so tight that the words come out scratchy and weak, not harsh like he wanted them to.

But Oswald’s face alters into a picture of rage, eyes widening and teeth baring. His hand tightens on Edward’s cheek, fingernails digging into his skin. “ _You think I don’t know that_?” Oswald spits. Edward trembles, feeling trapped in Oswald’s lap, even though there’s nothing holding him there. Nothing except the magnetic presence of _Oswald_. Oswald shuts his eyes and sucks in a deep breath, obviously calming himself, and as Edward watches him reassert control over himself, he feels a familiar ache, a _terrifyingly_ familiar ache, low in his gut.

Oswald opens his eyes, once again calm and cool. “You are—were— _are_ infatuated, Edward.”

“I don’t—”

“You think you’re the only one who’s looked at me like that?” Oswald asks, and _that_ shouldn’t hurt, but it does. “Do you really think I didn’t know what that starry-eyed look meant? But for whatever reason, you decided what we had wasn’t _good enough_ —”

“—that’s not!—”

“—and you abandoned it before even _considering_ it!”

Edward’s heart is in his throat and there’s a burning and _pulling_ feeling in his lower gut and he’s terrified of looking _down_ —

“ _That’s not what it was_!” Edward snaps. “I looked up to you, I won’t deny that—”

“Do you look at all your ‘mentors’ that way?”

“ _What_ way?” His mind stutters, his hands gripping Oswald’s shoulders, his eyes on Oswald’s lips. He remembers—remembers Oswald smiling, remembers Oswald dressing, remembers tracing the sleek lines of Oswald’s suit, his eyes drawn to Oswald’s fine wrists and expressive hands, drawn to his penetrating, impassioned gaze, drawn to his mouth, pink and curling into a faint, disdainful smile—

“What if I had kissed you?” Oswald asks, and Edward’s eyes dart up to meet his. “When I was staying at your apartment. What would you have done?”

“I—” Edward’s hands are trembling and his throat feels tight. As if by a wave, he is flooded with a series of images, wonderful and terrible and terri _fying_. Edward, sitting eagerly on the edge of his bed, Oswald watching him with those barely-curious eyes but then, instead of rejecting his attentions, if Oswald had reached out and held his neck and drawn him closer and closer, and Edward would have been _lost, lost,_ because all he’d ever _wanted_ was for someone so incredible to look at him and render him _worthy_ —

“You wouldn’t have,” Edward says, forcing himself back into reality, “you didn’t even like me.”

“Fine,” Oswald says, and just at that moment he shifts a little underneath Edward, enough that Edward is _burning_ , because he’s—he’s _hard_ and pressing against Oswald’s abdomen and he just barely stops himself from thrusting forward against him in pure, animal instinct. Does Oswald know? He must—he must feel it. “What if,” Oswald says, and Edward is jolted back into awareness, “the night you risked your life for me, at the Sirens—what if I had kissed you there, on my couch?”

“What—”

“ _What would you have done_?” Oswald demands harshly. His hand grips the side of Edward’s jaw when Edward tries to turn away, forcing him to hold eye contact.

There are horrible, unwanted tears in his eyes and he grits his teeth. “Oswald, y—”

“Don’t be a coward, _Eddie_ , what would—”

“ _I would have let you_!” Edward snarls. His fingernails are digging through the thin fabric of Oswald’s Arkham uniform, into the flesh of his shoulder. Oswald doesn’t flinch, staring straight at him with a clinical gaze. “I would have let you do whatever you wanted!” Oswald’s hand slides around to the back of Edward’s neck, and then, his eyes beginning to blaze with fervor, he yanks Edward toward him.

Oswald’s kiss is just like he never imagined, sharp and hungry and strangely reverent, his hand on Edward’s neck holding him close. Edward gasps and shuts his eyes, and Oswald’s other arm comes around his waist and drags him forward. His cock is pressing firmly into Oswald’s abdomen and it feels so— _so_ —

Edward shudders and Oswald lets out a groan into his mouth. His grip around Edward’s waist is firm, and he pulls Edward down into his lap. And Edward _feels_ it, feels Oswald’s _arousal_ pressing against his rear. And he _aches_ for it, for _more_ , but all he can manage to do is cling to Oswald’s shoulders even tighter. Then Oswald’s tongue strokes his teeth, demanding entrance, and Edward lets him in with a strange sense of relief.

He feels Oswald shifting underneath him and he can’t help but jerk his hips forward against him, the shocking jolt of pleasure traveling up his spine and turning him almost liquid with pleasure. He drapes himself onto Oswald, leaning into him, and Oswald’s grip around his waist becomes guiding as he twists and pushes Edward back onto the mattress.

Oswald comes with him, slotting himself between Edward’s legs, laying on top of him. He slides his hands up Edward’s sides, coming to grasp Edward’s face between his two palms and seizing complete control.

He presses himself against Edward, his arousal hot and heavy, and Edward moans and shudders underneath him. He feels Oswald’s lips curling into a smirk and then he _thrusts_ his hips against Edward. Edward wraps his legs around Oswald’s waist and clings to his biceps and Oswald breaks the kiss, huffing out a breath against his lips. Dropping his head down beside Edward’s, Oswald nips his ear, sending a sparking thrill through Edward. And then Oswald begins to rock against him, his breath heavy and hot against Edward’s ear.

It feels _so_ good and so unlike anything Edward has ever felt—he can’t _stop_ thinking about Oswald’s _cock_ pressing against him, can’t _focus_. Already he feels himself growing desperate, finds himself cast adrift, anchored only by Oswald’s grip on him and his frantic grip on Oswald.

He hears a hitching gasp and realizing it’s coming from him, and he bites his lip to try to stifle himself. Oswald chuckles into his ear, low and dangerous, and shifts his angle so that his cock is pressing against Edward’s.

A broken moan escapes him and he tilts his head, trying to bury his face in Oswald’s shoulder. The rhythmic movement carries him and he gives in, completely, as Oswald drags his hands down Edward’s sides and to his waist. His head lolls back when Oswald releases it, arching his back and displaying his neck. Out of the corner of his eye, upside down, he sees the door to their room, with the open slit— _oh_ , they would _hear_ him, wouldn’t they—and a shuddering groan escapes him at the thought. He reaches up with a hand to cover his own mouth, and he feels a puff of Oswald’s laughter against his ear.

“A bit late for that,” Oswald murmurs against his cheek, lips brushing his skin. Edward shuts his eyes and a whine escapes him, audible even through his hand.

Suddenly Oswald’s weight is gone, and Edward lets out a yelp, reaching for Oswald before he even opens his eyes. But there are two hands at his elastic-waist uniform pants and he arches up obediently as Oswald yanks them down and off, dropping them onto the floor beside the bed. Edward’s breath is coming faster, harder, and he lets out a little choked noise as Oswald ignores his erection and grasps the bottom hem of his shirt, pulling it up until Edward moves his arms up to assist.

And just like that, he’s naked; and Oswald looks down at him, eyes observant and assessing, and Edward reaches out to grasp Oswald’s elbow, nervously, pleadingly.

Oswald’s erection is visible through the thin material of the uniform, but he makes no move to release himself, just smiles down at Edward, strangely pensive. Then he leans down in one fluid movement and presses his lips to Edward’s hipbone.

With a gasp and a shudder, Edward tightens his grip on Oswald’s elbow. Oswald opens his mouth and licks Edward’s hip, and Edward clasps his hand over his mouth to try to stifle the noises he’s making. He can feel Oswald’s lips curving into a smile against his skin before he pulls away.

Edward lets out his breath in a huff, rolling his head back and staring at the door once again, feeling a shameful stirring at the thought of—of someone _hearing_ what Oswald is doing to him. And then there’s warmth and heat and wetness surrounding his cock and he jerks his head back down to stare at Oswald, whose eyes are focused inerrantly on Edward's.

Oswald's eyes crinkle at the corners, an implied smirk, and Edward feels a hot rush pass over him. His back arches and Oswald's hands press into his hips, pushing him back down against the mattress. It's been so long and…and Oswald is _confident_ , tongue lapping over Edward's tip, lips tightening in a ring around him.

Edward whines and clings to Oswald’s shoulders, trying desperately to keep himself grounded. But the sure movement of Oswald’s tongue blanks out his mind, rendering him senseless and enraptured and so very _lost_.

The air is suddenly cold against his cock and Edward lets out a choked gasp, rising up onto his elbows. Oswald has released him and is rising up onto his knees between Edward’s legs. As Edward watches him, Oswald smirks and lifts his hand to his lips, slipping three fingers inside.

He hollows his cheeks and _sucks_ , and Edward’s mouth drops open at the sight, hunger fizzling in his gut. Oswald raises his brows and brings his other hand down to rest on Edward’s hip, his grip strangely possessive, and then Oswald shuts his eyes as if in bliss, as he continues to wet his fingers.

Edward wants to reach out and _touch_ Oswald, to draw his fingers over Oswald’s sharp cheekbone, but before he can manage to move, Oswald pulls the fingers from his lips and reaches down, down, to press them against Edward’s entrance.

The first touch of Oswald’s fingers against him sends an eager and fearful thrill up his spine, and when Oswald begins to push inside, he bites his lip but still can’t manage to suppress the throaty whimper from escaping. It _hurts_ , even though Oswald’s being slow, and he grits his teeth to try and quell any other noise.

But Oswald seems to have read him; his fingers still and he leans forward over Edward, bringing his lips to Edward’s ear. “First time?” he asks softly, and Edward has to close his eyes fiercely and tilt his head away from Oswald’s before he manages to nod, curtly.

“Hmm,” Oswald hums in his ear, but he begins to carefully stroke his slick fingers over Edward’s entrance, acclimatizing him to the feel. “You’re doing very well,” Oswald murmurs, and Edward feels a blush take over his cheeks. Oswald’s other hand strokes up and down his side, the sweeping movement reassuring and proprietary. “Do you trust me?” Oswald asks finally, and what choice does Edward have? He nods again, biting his lip, and Oswald slips the tip of one finger _inside_ him.

And oh, that— _oh_ , that is what he _wants_ , what he’s wanted this whole _time_ , Oswald pressing inside of him in a way no one else has, his exploratory pressure confident and—and _practiced_ , and Edward has to grit his teeth at the thought of Oswald doing this to someone else. He lifts his hand and throws his arm over his eyes, shielding his expression from Oswald’s gaze; but Oswald only reaches up with his free hand and pulls Edward’s arm away, gently but firmly. 

“I need to see you,” Oswald mutters in explanation. “You won’t tell me if it’s too much,” he adds certainly, and maybe he’s right.

It’s torturous; Edward keeps his eyes shut and everything seems to fall away, until the only things left in his world are Oswald and him and the bed. The past fades away into nothing and the future becomes so distant as to be meaningless. He only exists in the present, in the feeling of Oswald’s fingers pressing deeper and further inside him, slow and aching and overwhelming.

Finally, Oswald has three fingers inside of him, opening him up, and his lips return to Edward’s ear. “Ready?” he murmurs, and Edward nods without thinking, without understanding.

At the first press of Oswald’s cock against him, he yelps and clings to Oswald’s shoulders, the sensation alarming in its newness. He feels Oswald freeze, his breath hot on Edward’s face, and then the whispered word: “Okay?”

Edward nods, a little frantically, and Oswald’s breath comes out in a sigh. “Open your eyes,” he says.

Edward shakes his head, and he feels the brush of air against his face and then a strangely chaste kiss is pressed to his lips without warning. “I need to see you,” Oswald says, firmly, and Edward finally blinks open his eyes.

Oswald is hovering above him, gaze piercing and intent, and his eyes rove over Edward’s expression for a moment before he nods, as if to himself.

And Oswald enters him, slowly, and Edward feels his arms and legs trembling at the shockingly foreign sensation, and he clutches Oswald’s shoulders even tighter, feeling cast adrift. He shifts his grip on Oswald, unsure what he needs, unsure how to keep himself _here_ —and Oswald snatches one of his wrists and pins it to the mattress with unexpected force.

Edward chokes on his gasp, mouth and eyes widening, and Oswald stares down at him with that penetrating gaze before taking his other wrist in hand and pinning it to the mattress as well.

Edward lets out a sigh of relief, skin tingling where Oswald holds him, his eyes falling shut with a strange feeling of contentment. He hears Oswald make a noise—satisfaction, desire?—and then Oswald thrusts against him, jerking Edward back against the mattress.

A noise escapes him, one he’s never heard himself make—high-pitched and almost helpless. “That’s it,” Oswald says quietly, and when he thrusts again Edward makes it again, louder. He feels warmth against the side of his face, and the soft brush of Oswald’s hair—he’s tucked his face into Edward’s shoulder as he thrusts, and Edward nuzzles his face against Oswald’s on instinct.

Oswald picks up a rhythm of thrusts, and Edward gives up on controlling himself, opening his mouth and letting gasps and pants and moans escape from him. He remembers, suddenly, the open slit in the door—and he flexes his hands in Oswald’s grip, pleased to find that he couldn’t cover his mouth anyway. He doesn’t have to try to quiet himself—Oswald has made the decision for him, and Oswald wants to _hear_ him.

He feels Oswald’s lips against the side of his neck, and he finds himself gasping out Oswald’s name. Oswald _licks_ him, and sucks on the skin, thrusting into him more forcefully, and Edward feels hot tears prickling at his eyes. “Oswald, _please_ ,” he says, not sure what’s he’s asking for, and Oswald lifts his face from Edward’s shoulder so suddenly that Edward opens his eyes on instinct.

Oswald is staring down at him with an _indescribable_ gaze, and with a hunger that has only been growing in the years since its inception, he lowers his mouth to Edward’s.

His kiss is intense, craving, and Edward lets Oswald _devour_ him; and when Oswald thrusts into him again he gasps into Oswald’s mouth, overwhelmed by the ravaging strength of Oswald’s desire.

And then Oswald shudders, and Edward can feel him coming, and he’s torn between desire for _more_ and the overwhelming _satisfaction_ of Oswald coming inside him, marking Edward, finding his fulfillment in this possession of Edward. Oswald collapses on top of him, his face tucked against Edward’s neck, his weight appealing. Edward lets out a shaky breath, his cock throbbing where it presses into Oswald’s stomach.

He bites his tongue and flexes his hands, still held in Oswald’s grip. Oswald’s hands tighten on his wrists when he does so, but otherwise remains still. “Os-Oswald?” Edward whispers. “Please?”

Oswald jerks as if awoken, and rises up to stare down into Edward’s face. Edward lets out a little whine; now _nothing_ is touching his arousal and it aches longingly. Oswald’s eyes dart to their hands, and he shifts both of Edward’s hands above his head and grasps both wrists in one hand, freeing his other. “Okay?” he asks Edward, and Edward nods feverishly.

Oswald pulls himself out of Edward, carefully, but it still sends an uncomfortable sensation through him and Edward whines softly. “I’m sorry,” Oswald murmurs soothingly, and Edward bites his lip and shuts his eyes, trying to hide from the fact that he wants to hear _more_ from Oswald in that soft voice. He feels Oswald’s fingers pressing against his entrance, again, and allows a breathy moan to escape himself as Oswald enters him again.

The thrust of Oswald’s fingers inside of him is a relief—the reality encroaching on him fades away once again, and the noise that escapes him is loud and desperate. His cock is throbbing, still untouched, and he wriggles his hands against Oswald’s grip experimentally.

Oswald says something, but it’s indistinct, and Edward ignores him until Oswald’s grip on his wrists loosens. His eyes flutter open to meet Oswald’s eyes, and this time he hears Oswald when he says: “Do you want me to let go?”

“No,” Edward says immediately, and he feels a flush on his cheeks as Oswald’s eyes narrow.

“You don’t want to touch yourself?” Oswald asks, and Edward whines in response, closing his eyes.

“No,” he says finally, and he feels a huff of breath against his face and Oswald thrusts his fingers inside of Edward a few times, making Edward arch his back and curse softly under his breath.

“Are you sure?” Oswald asks, and this time his tone has taken on a taunting edge. His grip on Edward’s wrists is tight once again, and Edward struggles a little, enjoying the way Oswald remains firm.

“I don’t want to,” Edward says, and opens his eyes.

“You don’t want to come?” Oswald asks, eyes alight with amusement, and Edward’s cock throbs.

“I’m fine,” Edward says, teeth gritted.

“Because I’m enjoying this,” Oswald explains. “I could keep doing this for _hours_.”

Edward shudders at the thought of Oswald keeping him suspended in pleasurable torment like this, and he feels the muscles in his thighs tense as he automatically tries to fuck himself onto Oswald’s fingers.

Oswald _tsks_ under his breath and shifts his weight a little, giving his arm better reach. His fingers inside of Edward turn exploratory and focused, and Edward blinks watery eyes as he stares up at the ceiling, mouth open to soft moans.

Then a sob catches in his throat and the world takes on bright sparkles at the corner of his vision and he’s flooded with _yes, oh, yes, please_ as Oswald thrusts his fingers in just the right spot. There’s ringing in his ears and his vision is whited out and then there’s _Oswald_ , pressing his lips to Edward’s slack ones.

Edward lets out an exhausted, elated sob, and Oswald _purrs_ into his mouth, delighted, and Edward _comes_ , Oswald’s tongue in his mouth, Oswald’s fingers inside him, Oswald, Oswald, _Oswald_ all around him, and he feels like he’s going _mad_ , to have lived his life and never _felt_ this before.

He collapses back onto the mattress, Oswald balanced above him, and gasps in air desperately, his lungs straining. He doesn’t understand why—he doesn’t understand _how_ —

Oswald presses open-mouthed kisses to his neck, sending heat racing through Edward even as he swallows and struggles to reorient himself, blinking away the tears in the corners of his eyes. Oswald lets go of his wrists, and Edward is left unmoored, his breath ragged and uneven. He feels Oswald’s hand on his face.

“Close your eyes, Ed,” Oswald says.

“Os—”

“Don’t think about it. You’ll only upset yourself.”

Edward reaches out with uncooperative hands to cling to Oswald’s forearms. He feels Oswald’s breath against his cheek. “Close your eyes and breathe,” Oswald says into his ear, and Edward shuts his eyes.

He keeps gasping, though, and he can’t stop. His diaphragm is leaping in his chest, turning his uneven breaths to hiccups. He feels the hand stroke his face and only moments later, a soft hum picks up next to his ear.

“Oswald?” he can’t help but whisper, and he feels Oswald’s face press against his, cheek to cheek. Now there’s a different tightness in his chest. He feels tears welling up in his eyes and Oswald was _right_ , wasn’t he…

“Shh, Ed,” Oswald murmurs, and Edward realizes that he’s begun to breathe faster again, air catching in his tight throat. Oswald strokes a hand over his chest, petting him. “What did I say?”

“Breathe,” Edward gasps between frightened pants. “I can’t—Oswal—”

“Breathe with me, then,” Oswald says, directly into his ear. “Breathe in…”

Hands clenched in worried fists, Edward copies Oswald’s exaggerated breaths, one after the other. Finally, his chest begins to loosen and he can feel Oswald’s hand resting by his collarbone. Oswald’s fingers are stroking over him, the movement minuscule but reassuring, and Edward concentrates on that singular sensation. It sends tingles racing over his skin. Oswald’s fingers are slow and delicate, mere whispers against Ed’s collarbone.

Eventually his heart rate slows. Oswald begins to hum in his ear once again, a sweet but unfamiliar melody. At last Edward lets go of Oswald’s forearms, melting into the mattress and sinking into sleep, inevitably, with the strangely familiar weight of Oswald on top of him, the very familiar voice humming in his ear.

~

He’s awoken by a voice next to his head. “Ed, wake up,” it whispers, and a little excited shudder passes through him even as he opens his eyes.

Oswald is looking down at him with an unreadable expression. “Hmm?” Edward murmurs, lifting his hand to Oswald’s cheek.

Oswald pulls his face away from Edward’s hand, out of his reach, and Edward blinks in confusion. “Get dressed,” Oswald says, averting his eyes.

Edward obeys wordlessly, still hazy from sleep. His tongue feels rough and stuck to the roof of his mouth, and he’s dizzy with sleepiness. He can’t quite tell what’s wrong with Oswald: the other man stands in the middle of their cell, arms folded, gaze set fixedly on the door to the cell. His face is averted, and Edward feels too awkward to question him while he’s still naked, so he waits until he’s tugging his shirt back on before he says: “Osw—”

The door to their cell creaks open, and Edward shuts his mouth with a click.

“Mr. Cobblepot?” a hushed voice asks.

“Yes,” Oswald says, voice calm and unsurprised. “We’re ready.”

“You—” Edward begins, voice startled.

“Yes,” Oswald tells him brusquely. He turns his head back toward Edward, just enough so that he’s cast in profile by the faint light from the hallway. “I’ve had the escape planned for weeks. Luckily for you, you stumbled into my cell right before it was to be enacted, with no chance for me to delay it. So come along, do as I say, and we’ll be back in the city by dawn.”

Edward takes a few abortive steps after Oswald as the shorter man makes his way to the door. He bites his lip and pauses on the threshold, confusion and interest battering at him in equal measure.

“Well?” Oswald asks impatiently, without turning around, and Edward follows him, quickly.

~

Under Oswald’s direction, they make it out without setting off any alarms, and there’s a limo waiting for them out front. Edward feels a strange sense of deja vu—but this time Oswald is alongside him, not waiting in the town car. And Oswald doesn’t look delighted to see him; he won’t meet Edward’s eyes at all, staring wordlessly out of the window at the dark streets. The ride back into the city is near-silent, broken only by the muffled sounds of tires on asphalt and Oswald’s nearly inaudible sighs. Dawn is just beginning to break over the horizon as they draw near to their destination.

Oswald’s chauffeur lets them out at the Iceberg Lounge, finally closed after a long night of entertaining guests. Edward stares up at the sign, still glowing dimly in the early-dawn darkness, but Oswald doesn’t pause for a moment, making his unsteady way into the club entrance.

“You’ll find a change of clothes in the restroom,” Oswald says over his shoulder. “I assume you have the same measurements.”

Edward doesn’t bother to respond; it wasn’t a question, anyway.

~

Oswald is finely turned out in one of his bespoke suits when Edward finally leaves the bathroom, but he’s not wearing makeup and his hair is mussed. Edward is hardly one to judge; he doesn’t have any gel and his hair is curling, stubbornly, falling out of its usual strict style.

“Well,” Oswald says when he sees him. “You’re free to leave.”

“Just like that?” Edward asks. He eyes Oswald closely, but there’s no change in expression: Oswald watches him flatly, unmoved. “Don’t you…have anything you want to say?” Edward adds finally, closing the rest of the distance between them, until he’s only a few steps away from Oswald. _Still too far_.

“Don’t bother,” Oswald says, firmly, gruffly.

Edward’s mouth drops open, his eyes on Oswald, uncertain and a little incredulous. _Don’t bother_? After the… _revelations_ they’ve had? Edward opens and closes his mouth, testing his urge to speak. “Earlier,” Edward begins finally, and Oswald scoffs before he can continue.

“That was a mistake, Ed,” Oswald says emphatically, turning to retrieve a bottle of wine and a wine glass from behind the bar counter. “I apologize for my part of it,” he continues, even more absurdly, and Edward chews on his lip hesitantly. Oswald doesn’t sound _sorry_ ; he sounds _impatient_. As if he wants Edward to hurry up and leave.

As if he doesn’t want Edward to examine the situation further.

“You were goading me,” Edward announces, realizing it as he says it. Oswald hadn’t seemed at all surprised by the results of his teasing—he’d seemed _ready_ for it. “You wanted that to happen.” He feels a flush on his cheeks: _that_. Oswald _fucking_ him. He’d woken up sore.

Oswald grimaces, taking a deep swing of the wine. “You’re right, Ed, I did.” Edward feels a hot-cold rush over him, a shameful kind of significance to that. “I apologize,” Oswald continues. “That was selfish of me.”

He still won’t meet Edward’s eyes.

“No,” Edward insists—Oswald’s admission is too easy, his manner too secretive. “You wanted—”

_“You could just go to bed, and we wouldn’t have to endure each other’s company any longer.”_

_“Not much chance of that. Not while you’re sitting there, awake.”_

“You wanted me to fall asleep,” Edward says, realization dawning blindingly bright. “You were planning on leaving me behind.”

Oswald looks up at him with eyes that are cold and strangely cruel.

“But you couldn’t go through with it,” Edward breathes. “You woke me up and brought me with you.”

Oswald stares him down. His eyes are once again iced over, empty and almost crystalline in appearance. He blinks once, his long lashes fluttering faintly. Edward watches him, and waits.

“ _Congratulations_ ,” Oswald spits finally, voice thick with rage. “You are astonishingly intuitive for someone who fell in love with a _fake person_!”

Edward feels an instinctive flicker of anger in response and opens his mouth to shout back—

—but there’s a glint in Oswald’s eyes; he _wants_ to make this a fight.

Edward brings his hand to his mouth and breathes in deeply, uncertain how to respond. Oswald is deflecting, defensive, and Edward just wants to…he just wants the _other_ Oswald back, the one who was soothing and gentle and strangely kind. He chews on his lip.

“Thank you,” he says finally, slowly, “for bringing me with you.”

Oswald deflates immediately, sinking back down onto his bar stool and picking up his glass of wine. “You owe me a favor,” he says sourly, and takes a sip.

“Oswald,” Edward says, and Oswald looks over at him, reluctantly. “We can…change,” Edward says, “can’t we?”

Oswald stares at him for several long moments. “Ed…” He shuts his eyes and his brow creases. He doesn’t continue; his face is frustrated, lips downturned into a near-scowl.

“We have before,” Edward offers, hesitantly; but when Oswald’s expression flattens, he knows he’s said the wrong thing.

“Is there a point to this, Edward?” Oswald asks brusquely, opening his eyes and looking down at his glass. His hand is tense, white-knuckled, the tendons pronounced. “Or will you condescend to leave me in peace?”

Edward fidgets. “Oswald,” he begins. He trails off when Oswald looks up at him, eyes narrow and harsh. Despite the nervousness fluttering in his chest, he bites his lip and forces himself to continue. “Oswald, you were right.”

Oswald watches him, not quite suspicious and not quite annoyed. “How so?” he finally asks, taking a decisive sip of his wine.

“I _was_ in denial.”

Oswald almost appears to not understand for a moment, swallowing his wine and looking up at Edward expressionlessly. Then he freezes, his brows drawing together in consternation, his mouth dropping open in shock.

Edward stumbles over his words in a rush to explain himself. “I’m not, anymore. Oswald, I—I’ve never felt anything like that.”

Oswald appears to shiver, and he clenches his hands into fists, lips drawing back in a snarl. “One good fuck and you’re head over heels,” Oswald says sharply, cruelly. “If only I’d known that back in the day.”

Oswald _still_ doesn’t believe him. There’s only one thing—one more thing he can say. It’s terrifying. He never— _never_ expected to have to say this, to bare his heart in the face of Oswald’s self-protective cruelty. He shuts his eyes and takes in a deep breath, worrying at his lower lip with his teeth. Finally he straightens and meets Oswald’s eyes.

“I do love you, Oswald.”

Oswald swallows. Edward continues to watch him, heart in his throat; and then Oswald’s flinty expression breaks: he looks at Edward with tired eyes, with weary eyes, with loving eyes. “Ed…”

“I think I always have,” Edward says, trying to shift his expression—but he’s unsure how to convey the right feeling. Oswald’s eyes slide over his face, and Edward can’t help but blurt out: “ _Please_.”

Oswald takes a step forward. “I have half a mind to shoot you where you stand,” Oswald says, but his voice is trembling.

“You don’t mean that,” Edward says. There’s a smile trying to break free—desperate relief and fondness—and Oswald shakes his head.

“Of _course_ I don’t, you ridiculous man,” Oswald says. “I never _wanted_ to—” he breaks off, lifting a hand to rest, softly, on Edward’s collarbone.

Edward can see that he’s worried, worried about what they’re tentatively forging. He steps closer to Oswald, and says eagerly: “We can change, Oswald. We can.”

Oswald smiles, a little ruefully, and casts his gaze to the floor. “I don’t know that I know _how_ to, anymore.”

As if drawn in by magnetism, Edward steps still closer to him. “Of course you can. You already have—you saved me.”

Oswald looks up and rolls his eyes. “That’s putting it a bit strongly, isn’t it?” he insists. “All I did was invite you along.”

“Oswald, please.”

“Yes,” Oswald says immediately. He looks weary and so incredibly fond, all at once. “Of course, Ed, I want us to change. I—I—”

“Kiss me, then,” Edward urges him, and before he can take another breath Oswald’s arms are around him and his mouth is on Edward’s.

The kiss feels longing, this time, and hopeful, and Edward’s heart leaps in his chest with some enamored anticipation rather than the fervent lust of earlier. There is so much that has passed between them, so much still unresolved, but when Oswald pulls away he looks up into Edward’s eyes with yearning. And Edward knows that whatever he must do to make this work, he will.

“I love you,” Oswald says, quietly, and Edward feels contentment wash over him as if an ocean wave, soothing his buried hurts and quiet longings.

“I love you, too,” Edward tells him.

And Oswald smiles.

  
  



End file.
